The Piano
by H. S. Shore
Summary: Medicine heals the body, music heals the soul.
1. Medusa

Love is lonely. Let's face it, Stacy thought to herself, there's no other way to preface the idea. She'd long ago given up hope of being demure and detached, of being aloof from the situation entirely. She'd claimed time and time again that there was nothing to be said, that she was being blasphemed by her nosy coworkers, but the fact remained that it was love, and it was lonely. What's more, the CD player had run out of batteries.

David Gray mournfully wound down into a slow, base monotone as the last vestiges of life left the machine. Stacy glared at it. It sputtered to a halt and stopped emitting music altogether. Like Medusa, she thought.

This morning she had looked like Medusa, as Mark had so eloquently put it, with tendrils of her usually kempt hair wisping out in all directions, creating a snakelike coronet. She'd spent hours tearing through them with a comb, watching stray unlucky hairs falling to the ground as the comb tore them unceremoniously from her head. Glamorous, she'd thought. Now all she had to show for it was a headache, and less hair.

Every day when she was younger, her mother had picked through her own hair looking for stray gray hairs to pluck out to make way for the highly colorized crop that she had sported until at least age eighty. Stacy found herself searching for them herself, young enough though she was. Doctor Gregory House was impending worry on one good leg. She'd be lucky to get out of this one grey-hair free.

Mark stepped through the half-open bedroom door without knocking. "You look fine," he said, glancing down at her disgruntled face in the mirror. "Throw something on, we're going out to dinner tonight."

Stacy blinked at him. "Tonight? I have a dinner date."

His eyes snapped down to meet hers. "A date? With whom?"

Stacy sighed. "With Lisa, thank you, Mark, just to catch up. Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go out to dinner?"

"She can't catch up in a full day at the hospital?" Mark asked skeptically, throwing his shirt in the general direction of the laundry bin, and missing. He pulled another out of the closet, and tossed one arm through the sleeve. "It's not like they don't see enough of you at that damn place. Not like I don't."

"Jesus, Mark, don't play the guilt game." Stacy stood up, and slipped his other arm through the other sleeve of his shirt, careful not to twist him. "You didn't say anything. I'm entitled to go out and have a girls' night now and again." She smiled, giving him a peck on the forehead. "Go out with some friends, have a good time."

"Yeah?" Mark muttered, "Like who?"

Stacy shrugged. "You could call Jack, or Ben, or Chris...there's a game on tonight, you could just stay in and get potato chip grease all over my couch, if you really want." She waited for a response, but didn't receive one. Mark stared balefully over her head at the blank television screen. With a sigh, Stacy slipped into her heels, and picked up Mark's abandoned shirt as she went for the door.

"I'll be back by eleven," she said. "There's fish in the freezer. I love you."

Stacy arrived at Lisa Cuddy's table at "Mariano's Italian," looking even more windswept than she already had.

"You've got this Medusa thing going on with your hair," Cuddy remarked as Stacy sat down with an apologetic look. "It's good, I like it. They'll be wearing it in Hollywood in months."

Stacy rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the thought." Cuddy slid a menu to her over the table, but didn't open her own, watching as Stacy perused the options with one finger running down the list of choices.

"So how've you been?" She asked. "You look great, you're finally moved in, how's it going?"

Stacy grimaced. She knew exactly what the underlying question was. "I'm just fine," she said, as matter-of-factly as she could muster. Emphasizing the "we," she added "We're really doing just fine."

"Good, good," Cuddy nodded, opening and glancing through her own menu. "I have to say, I'm ridiculously grateful for you staying on with us. It's a pain of a job, I know it better than most, I really do, and especially with Greg being such a pain himself!"

"Isn't he though," Stacy added. "The chicken looks really good. How's the chicken?"

"He really appreciates you, though," Cuddy continued. "You're the first person who's stayed on long enough to actually help him make some lasting wins. I think without you we'd have had to give him up long ago. God only knows his practice is anything but legal, and you've seen how brilliantly good I am at keeping the man in line."

"How," asked Stacy pointedly, "Is the chicken, Lisa?"

"Mmm?" Cuddy shrugged. "I don't know, I've never had it."

Authors Note: More when I don't have a headache. I promise. But seriously. This headache is monster. Wow. Leave comments! Good, bad, or ugly, I'm a writer, I can take it, I'm a big girl. ;)


	2. Didn't See It Coming

As Wilson stepped into House's office, a tennis ball glanced off of his shoulder.

"Oh," House said, looking up, "I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming in."

Wilson sighed. "No, you're not, and yes, you did."

"Okay," House agreed with a shrug. "How can I help the oncology department?"

Helping himself to a chair, Wilson stretched himself out in it. "You can start by not making me come to see you in your office."

"I'm a cripple," House countered, "It's your show."

"You're not that crippled." Wilson shook his head. "You seem to get around very easily when someone's after you to get something done."

"What, you want me to limp for you?" House took three halting steps around the room, and then slid back into his desk chair without looking for Wilson's response.

"Wasn't that a line from "A Chorus Line?" asked Wilson. "On father's day, I'd limp for him."

House shrugged. "I've never seen it."

"Uncultured," grinned Wilson.

"Sure, sure," House said, raising his eyes to the heavens in mock frustration, "Abuse the cripple."

Wilson slid his hand across the desk in a one-armed stretch, and stopped. He looked down at the counter, blinked, and then ran his hand along it, sliding down behind it to look at it from the other side. He picked up the coffee mug and moved that, looked under it and around it. Sliding his chair over to House, Wilson reached into House's breast pocket and fished around for a moment. House looked down at his hand, and then up at Wilson.

"Why Doctor Wilson," he said, "I highly doubt this falls under appropriate workplace contact. We might have to take it home with us."

Wilson extracted his hand from House's pocket. "Where's your Vicodin?" he asked.

"You can't have any," House retorted. "Go buy your own. Lazy moocher."

Dissatisfied, Wilson insisted. "Where is it? You never go without. Got a new hiding place that you know I'll end up finding before tomorrow?"

"Nope." House recovered his tennis ball from below the desk, and tossed it on one hand. "The meds and I are undergoing a period of separation."

"Uh huh." Wilson watched the ball bouncing up and down in his friends' hands. "Forced separation?"

"No." House bit his lip. "It's a mutual thing."

"How long is this separation period going to last, do we think?" Wilson asked, receiving no response from his otherwise occupied friend. "What are you going to do, play mournful piano while your fingers itch to reach for those pain meds?"

"Cripple abuse," muttered House, dropping the tennis ball with a disgruntled sigh.


	3. Shiver

She was standing in his office doorway three hours later, reminding House his of his co-workers' favorite pastime – office gossip. He wrinkled his nose in mock confusion over Stacy's smugly sweet smile, and leaned towards her in his rolling chair. "And what can I do for you? I'm sorry, I just don't think I can fit a quickie into my schedule, but if you're insistent, come back in an hour and I'll see what I can do."

"No thanks," she replied. "Three hours is just too long. I'll just pop by Wilson's office and see if _he_ has a moment."

"Ew," said House. He watched her for a moment, taking in the loose tendrils of her hair, her almost starkly upright posture, her nervous hands. She looked beautiful, and like she hadn't been sleeping. "How are you?" He asked. "You look…"

"Well?" She asked. "No, I wouldn't expect that from you, too mundane, too predictable. Cuddy says I look well. I think I look messy."

"Tired," House finished, as if she hadn't spoken. "Have you been sleeping?"

"If that's a slow way to a vulgar question, then yes, I've been sleeping just fine." She glowered at him, and then shivered unexpectedly, a chill running through her. She glanced down, noticing that she was standing over the office air vent. House chuckled.

"You'd look less weather-beaten if you didn't stand on the air vent. Just a thought."

"Well," she replied, "Next time I'm trying to impress you, I'll remember that."

"Nah," House said, shaking his head. "You won't."

Stacy stared at the ground for a long moment, running her fingers over the back of her neck in an unconscious nervous gesture. House stood up and crossed over to her, lifting her hand gently from behind her head and pushing it down. "Don't do that," he reminded. "Someday you'll break the skin, and it's not like we've got band aids just lying around, her. Where do you think you are?"

"I heard a rumor," she said, as his fingers lingered over hers, "That you're trying to kick the habit."

"Wherever might you have heard that," House mock-mused. Stacy snorted.

"He doesn't think you can do it."

House shrugged. "I think he's right." He crossed to the other side of his desk, and placed his hand over the spot where his bottle of pills used to reside. "I don't know why I decided to embark on this endeavor in the first place.

"Because it's good for you," Stacy suggested. House shook his head.

"Because," he said, "and I'm going to let you in on a little secret. The depths of the mind of Doctor Gregory House; things you wanted to know, and things you didn't. Are you writing this down?"

"Mental note," smiled Stacy. "What's the big secret?"

"Drug dependency." He shrugged. "I hate drug dependency, I think it's weak, obnoxious, and costly"

Stacy snorted. "You're a doctor who hates drugs."

"Not drugs," House shook his head. "Drugs are good for you. When they're not good for you, at least they're fun, and don't we all need a little more pep and joy in our lives." He bit his lip. "Nope, it's the dependency that I can't stand. The lack of self-sufficiency. If you can't do it yourself, getting hooked on the drug is not the answer. And I say that with a straight face. Or at least as straight a face as I can throw together."

"So." Stacy put a hand on his shoulder, and relished the shiver that ran through him as she did so. "What's the next phase of plan No-More-Dependency?"

"Well," House sighed, "We'll see what happens after the first week, I guess."

Stacy smiled. "You're not going ot say something like "No matter what I do, don't let me start up again, no matter how many times I beg you," are you," she asked.

"Nope." Said House. "Definitely not."


	4. Morning Calls for Pain Relief

That night, in the secluded, precious privacy of his own home, Doctor House made a few phone calls. He called the parents of a sick girl who he'd recently had the pleasure of diagnosing with obsessive-over reactive-mother-syndrome. He called his obsessive, over reactive, but very sweet mother. He called the pizza delivery man, and had a long, involved conversation about whether or not anchovies were acceptable on a pizza after six o'clock in the evening.

Having no other available numbers, House considered calling Cameron. She'd talk to him no matter what time of night it was, no matter what he wanted to say, for however long he felt it necessary to abuse her. The devotion to both him and to the workplace both sickened and attempted to inspire him. He didn't' call her for just that reason. He was in no mood to be sickened, or to be inspired, and he had no stomach tonight for pity.

Television provided little of interest. There was an awards show on, showcasing movies he'd never seen, and TV shows that he'd never heard of. There was a golf game in progress, but he wasn't in the mood to be put to sleep. Casablanca was playing on one channel, touting "family movie night, fun for all ages." He watched the black and white love triangle until he could no loner stand the dramatically delivered dialogue, and the hackneyed long, romantic looks.

Unable to sleep, House's mind drifted back to the conversation he'd had with Wilson earlier that day. In the middle of the living room, he had a piano, one that had belonged to his father when he was young. He'd never played when he was younger; in fact, he'd never played while he lived in his father's house. Maybe it was a rebellious streak, or just good old fashioned belligerence. Either way, he'd started late, and so it had taken him longer to learn.

His mother had played the piano. She was a very graceful woman until she reached her fifties and lost some of her vision. Even then, there'd been something graceful about her hands. He'd never go as far as to reflect on watching them when he was younger, or to reminisce about her beauty in her musical moments. He did however cede that it could have been that tableau, of her, and her piano that had made her seem so powerful to him as a child.

He played through the four songs that he knew once through to get the feel of the keys. Two pieces of Bach, "Summertime," and Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah," before he finally started to feel himself getting tired. His playing slowed down as he got sleepier, taking longer to remember and to pick out the keys as he slid his hands over the black and white ivory.

Just as he was ready to crawl off to bed, the phone rang. House groped for it under the covers of the bed, and then held it to his year, muttering, "What?"

"Hey." Wilson's voice on the other end was tentative. "How's your first full day?"

"Peachy keen." House let out a yawn, and Wilson laughed on the other end.

"Really wore you out, huh?" He waited for a moment, and then added, "You know, I'm not sure if now is really a good time to do this."

House grumbled. "You said that the last time. And you call yourself my friend. Friends don't let friends do drugs."

Wilson sounded frustrated. "They aren't drugs, they're painkillers." He paused, then sighed. "Anyway, you do whatever you want, I just don't want you to hurt yourself, that's all."

"Thanks, mom," House replied. He could just see Wilson shaking his head at the receive on the other end, throwing up his hands in defeat.

"Anytime, darling. Don't forget to eat your carrots." He said, in a falsetto.

House winced. "What?"

Pausing, Wilson replied, "What do you mean, what? Your mother never told you to eat your carrots?"

House shook his head. "My mother hated carrots. She didn't care what I ate as long as I ate something and remembered to bring home good grades from med school."

"Well," said Wilson responded decisively, "That's what's wrong with you."


	5. On Broadway

Stacy made herself a cup of coffee when she got home that night. Mark was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper. When she walked in, he started to turn the pages jerkily, pointedly not looking up at her. Stacy gave him a few moments of his tantrum before turning to engage him.

"Long day?" She asked, holding out her cup of coffee. "I'll make you some."

Mark shook his head at her. "I'm fine, thank you."

Sighing, Stacy retracted the coffee, taking a long sip and a deep breath. Straightening her shoulders, she craned her neck over to see what he was reading, expecting the sports news, or records of some new medical treatment. Instead, he was looking at the want ads. "Washington DC, two bedroom, three bathroom," one of the articles read. "Really affordable, need to sell by June!"

"Mark?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. Mark closed the paper with a snap, and wheeled himself around to face her. "Actually," he said, "I'd like some coffee."

Stacy crossed into the kitchen, and heard the rustling of paper and Mark opened the newspaper and continued scanning the homes. She turned on the radio and slid around the counter to grab herself a cookie from the cabinets.

"You know," called Mark from the other room, "We should take a trip into New York some time. Little bit of a holiday. I thin kit would be good for you."

"New York?" Stacy asked. "Why?"

"You like the theater," Mark replied with a shrug. "You used to complain that I never took you to the theater anymore, so we could go."

"There are lots of nice theaters around here," Stacy retorted. "Besides," she added, bringing his coffee back into the living room, and depositing it on the table, "We can go traveling when you're feeling a little bit healthier."

Mark grimaced. "I feel fine."

"Well, I'd feel fine if we kept you stationary for a bit." Stacy returned to her seat, removing the paper from in front of Mark and turning to the entertainment section. "Let's see what's playing in the area, if you really want to go. Sounds like fun to me. We could get dinner, have a real night out. We haven't done that in a long time." She glanced through, turning pages until she came to an appealing looking production. "Here we go, Pirates of Penzance," playing locally. We could get dinner beforehand, have a nice time. We haven't been out in ages.

Mark glowered. "I know you'd like me stationary," he muttered. "That's why I think we should go to New York."

Stacy stopped, and closed the newspaper with a snap, turning to face her husband. "Well then," she said quietly, "We'll just have to wait until your doctors permit you to leave the area."

"The doctor," he retorted, "would never permit you to leave the area if he had his first choice."

"We weren't talking about me, now, were we?" Stacy took folded up the newspaper, and stood up, planting her free hand on her hip. "Drink your coffee. I'm ordering a pizza."

She left the living room and stalked upstairs to her bedroom, tossing the paper on the floor as she slumped into bed. She knew that Mark would be over his travel plans in the morning, and she knew why he was feeling so drastically about the whole thing. Mark was an extremist a man of action, and Stacy was his sole outlet. It was a job she had signed on for not once, but twice, with two different men, and since she'd seemed to have failed the first test, she was going to pass this one if it killed her.

She could hear Mark wheeling around downstairs, angrily slamming glasses on to the counter. Everything with him was abrupt and indiscreet lately, like he thought that if he made her sufficiently aware of his torment, she'd condescend to put his life back together.

Maybe, Stacy thought, if we could find a way to put his life back together, everything would sort itself out in time. The source the anger was the injury, it was the powerlessness, and the frustration, and the indignity. But one could live with indignity, one could live with powerlessness. What one couldn't live with was frustration. And who knew that better than she did?


	6. Tempting the Tiger

Stacy found Doctor House wedged into the back of his office, with his head braced against the corner of the wall. She stuck her head in the door, and called to him from a safe distance.

"Greg?" She put one foot into the office, concerned.

"Go away." House didn't turn around to acknowledge her. With a sigh, Stacy left him there, listening to his head thunk against the wall, on which the paint was cracked in several places from such repeated beatings. Thee hours ago she'd listened to him berating Cameron for stepping in and taking a bottle of Vicodin off his desk, which seemed to have appeared there overnight, a gift from the gods of pain medication. Three days going on four, and all the cold turkey treatment seemed to be doing was making him even more aggressive and irritable than he usually was. If Stacy had wanted to entertain a caged tiger, she could have stayed home from work. By now, Cameron was the only one in the building who hadn't decided to let House fail to quit if he so desired.

Stacy met up with Wilson and Cuddy on their way to lunch as she passed by House's office for a second time, in hopes of finding him in a slightly more pleasant mood. Wilson shook his head as Stacy made as if to call out to House, and she continued past the office with the others.

"He's miserable," Wilson sighed apologetically.

Cuddy looked unperturbed. "He's always miserable," she said with a shrug. "I think it's good for him."

"I don't mean he's being miserable to us," Wilson protested, frowning, "I mean he's miserable, he's unhappy, he's in withdrawal."

"What, you want me to go in there and give him a hug?" Cuddy snorted. "You first, Doctor. Stacy and I are going to go to lunch."

"I think Stacy should go talk to him," Wilson said. The comment lacked any vestige of subtlety, and Stacy ignored it. "No, I really do," Wilson continued, as if she hadn't heard him the first time. "He talks to you. He listens to you, which is more courtesy than he'd afford either of us."

"And what," Stacy asked, "might he listen to me say? I've got nothing. No "one hundred and one ways to get over your Vicodin withdrawal. Besides," she added, with a glance back towards his office, "He doesn't listen to me. He just derives joy out of pretending to so that he has an excuse to be argumentative and peevish."

"But he does derive joy from it," Wilson noted. Stacy rolled her eyes.

"He ordered me out of his office when I went in earlier today to try and console him, if that's what you want me to do. He was beating his head against the wall." She knocked on the wall, imitating the sound that Wilson had no doubt heard emanating from House's office.

"It's all right," Cuddy said. "The man's got brain cells to burn, I'll give him that." She shrugged. "I've long ago given up trying to understand him, I'm satisfied with a professional truce. But if he keeps this up, and can't handle his duties as a doctor, he'll have to stop. He's got obligations, I've got obligations, and his patients expect a doctor, not a lunatic."

"House is never what a patient expects," Wilson countered.

"We'll just have to learn to expect the unexpected," Stacy agreed.

Cuddy shook her head. "We will, but not our patients. He'll do what he has to do, for everyone involved. And I know it's been like this before, but if he can't quit, then he can't quit."

Stacy left them after lunch and returned to her own office, to mull over things in private. She knew how irritated Mark was, how much he genuinely needed some time to take a load off and relax. Picking up the phone, she called and made a reservation at a local Chinese place, for seven o'clock. Maybe they could talk things over, just the two of them. The first step on the road to recovery, she thought. Someone had to make it, and it looked like she'd be making it for them both.

After she'd finalized the reservation, she dialed her home number. Mark didn't pick up on the first try, so she called again, knowing he was probably home in front of the television. He did pick up on the second call, apparently surprised to hear from her.

"Hey sweetie. I've got a surprise for you," she started. "How's the day been?"

Mark sighed. "Peachy keen and uneventful," he said. "What's the surprise?"

"Well," Stacy started, "You were saying that you wanted us to get out more and do exciting things, so I thought tonight we could go to that new Chinese place we heard about. I've got us a seven o'clock reservation, nice, relaxing sit-down dinner, uninterrupted, just you and me. I feel like we never talk anymore. I think it'll be nice."

There was a pause on the other end before Mark responded. "Yeah, sure, that sounds like fun." The enthusiasm that she'd looked for in his voice was lacking, but Stacy tried not to let that dissuade her.

"I'll come home right after work and pick you up, "she said. "Clean yourself up if you're not already." He agreed, and hung up the phone, leaving Stacy dangling, unfulfilled, on the other end. She'd hoped for a warmer reception, but that would come with time. She'd make sure he had a good time. It would, as he'd said before, be good for her. It'd be good for them both.


	7. Like Coke and Water

Stacy was enthusiastic enough to wear a dress to dinner. She stopped at home to get Mark, and spent a few minutes cleaning herself up in the bathroom mirror, choosing new shoes and a new scarf to go with her old dress, to try to achieve a slightly fresher look than the usual post-work, grungy Stacy.

She sang along with the oldies on the radio as they turned the corner, heading into the "Chow Fat" parking lot. Mark watched contemplatively out of the window, remaining pensively silent until Stacy parked the car and swung open the driver's side door. Crossing to assist him, she waited until he was comfortably settled into his chair before wheeling him through the crowded front entrance of the restaurant.

It looked like she'd made a good choice in making a reservation. The restaurant, relatively new to the area, was packed, and Stacy gave herself a little mental pat on the back for being on top of the local eating trends. After a moment, a waitress approached them with two menus under her arm, and gestured them to follow her to their table. Stacy wheeled mark through and around the tables, past the booths until they came to a seat beside the windows, looking out on a packed parking lot.

"Great view," Mark muttered, as the waitress took her leave. Stacy chuckled. She leafed through her menu, stopping on a traditional plate of beef with broccoli, always a winner. As she turned to Mark to ask him what he was planning to order, she found his menu unopened, lying on the table in front of him. His eyes had drifted across the room to a table at which sat a young couple and their child, who was playing raucously on the seat beside them.

"Mark?" Stacy asked, leaning in towards him snapping his attention back to the menu. He shook his head as she opened it for him, and sighed.

"Everyone is staring at me," he said unhappily. Stacy glanced around. All eyes were focused on their menus, their dates, or their children, at least as far as she could tell.

"No one is staring at you," she assured him, returning to the menu. "You know, I think the noodles look really good. You could start off with them and then share a plate of beef and broccoli with me, I'm sure it'll be more than I usually eat." Her finger rested on the appetizer she'd suggested, and Mark nodded curtly.

"Sure, sounds fine." He shot another furtive glance at the family at the opposite table before settling back against his booth seat, resting his hands in front of him on the table. "So," he said, "You wanted to talk."

Stacy wasn't sure how to respond to that. She was at a loss for what to talk about. It had seemed such a natural thing, to go to a restaurant with her husband, and to bond. "Well," she said, "I mean, we don't seem to ever have time for each other anymore. We don't talk, not really, not like communicate. I just thought we could go out and enjoy each other' company for once. You know?"

"Sure," Mark agreed, with a curt nod. "So. What do you want to talk about?"

"I…want to talk about you, I guess," Stacy floundered for something to say. "What you've been up, what's been on your mind. I feel like I barely know you anymore."

The waitress came at that moment to ask what they'd be eating. Stacy placed their order, and asked for two glasses of water. She never drank soda anymore, trying to get the excess sugar out of her diet. Mark glanced quizzically at her when she ordered a water for him, as well, but didn't speak up.

"I wanted a coke," he said, after the waitress had left. Stacy shrugged. "I'm sorry, honey, do you want me to call her back?" He shook his head. Stacy frowned. "If you wanted a coke, you should have said you wanted a coke. We can ask for one when she brings the food."

They sat for a few more moments in silence. "So," Stacy asked, "Re-introduce me to the Mark I've been so far from lately. What have you been up to?"

Mark shrugged. "Nothing." He drew a circle idly with one finger on the table, and looked up at Stacy's intent eyes. "Nothing interesting. Reading the paper. Watching television. The same things bored, damaged men usually do with their unvalued time."

"I value your time," Stacy started with a sigh, "I'm busy, Mark, I've got a job. Maybe we could take a week off, go on vacation." She smiled. "You mentioned it a couple of weeks ago. Sure why don't we go to New York for a few days. I've been thinking about it, it sounds like fun. We don't even have to tell anyone, we could just go. Make it our secret getaway." She winked at him, but he shrugged.

"If you could get away," he said, noncommittal. "I wouldn't want to impose on your rigorous schedule."

Frustrated, Stacy rested her chin in the palm of one hand. The waitress returned with two glasses of water. Mark stared expectantly at Stacy, who waited, and then eventually said "I'm sorry, ma'am, can we also have a coke, please?" As the waitress walked away, Stacy glared at Mark. "Just what is going on with you today?"

"Nothing," he said, with a shrug. "Nothing is going on with me today that hasn't been going on with me for months. I'm not surprised that you haven't noticed." He sipped the water that she'd ordered for him despite his apparent misgivings.

Stacy threw up her hands. "So enlighten me! What have I missed? What do I need to know that you're incensed about me being away from?"

Mark didn't answer. He sipped his water, played with his napkin, and watched the child in the opposite seat. Stacy waited, taking as many deep breath as she could fit into the pause, as slowly as she could. Finally, Mark shrugged again, and gave her a look that was both innocent and accusatory.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

Stacy felt herself getting angry. The frustration had built up into a wave of irritation, almost to the point of nausea. "Look," she said, flicking a tendril of hair back across her face, "this was a bad idea. Forget it. I'm sorry I tried to draw you out of your self-obsessed stupor long enough to reconnect with you. Forgive me, Mark, would you?"

She got up angrily and stepped around her seat, leaving the table and heading for the exit. Mark called after her, sounding startled. "Where are you going?"

She didn't answer, because she didn't know. Striding towards the door, she realized that they'd come in one car. She could take hers, and leave Mark stranded at the restaurant, but it seemed a little bit extreme. Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, she called a cab, and stood with her back against the wall of the restaurant, waiting. After a moment or so, she heard the sound of wheels creaking behind her, and turned around, expecting to find Mark coming out to find her.

Instead, it was an old man, being pushed by a young woman, heading out towards his car. He caught her eye as he left the restaurant, giving her a strange look before breaking their gaze. Stacy turned back to the street, trying to remember to take deep breaths. She should go back inside, she thought. She should go back and smooth everything over. But she didn't.


	8. A Perfectly Human Response

House was playing solitaire when the knock on the door came. He abandoned the half-hearted game immediately, sighing as he looked down at his watch. Ten o'clock at night. There was no one who'd be calling at ten o'clock at night who he'd have any interest in seeing. Then again, he realized, there was no one he knew who'd be calling at ten o'clock at night either way.

He crossed to the door, and put his hand out towards the knob. Before he could reach it, the knock came again, a little more forceful this time, more urgent. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he called. "What do you want?"

"Greg?" Stacy sounded tired, nervous. "Greg, can I come in? I know it's late, but you're not sleeping."

House undid the lock, and opened the door, allowing Stacy full view of his home. The entrance room was littered with papers, some of which where half-torn, strewn about the floor and countertops. The piano itself was covered in dog-eared books and sticky notes. The closet, visible through the open living room door, was the only thing in the house that seemed to be organized.

"It's a mess in here," Stacy announced, surprised.

House snorted. "You're welcome," he said. What are you doing here?"

Stacy looked at him. "You're a mess, too," she said, unconsciously reaching out and brushing his hair back from his face. A now too familiar unconscious shiver ran through House's body, unnoticed by Stacy. "This is unlike you."

"People change," House replied helplessly, gesturing to her dress. "You, on the other hand, look very nice. Did you come marching into my house in the middle of the night to try and seduce me with your little green dress and your new stilettos? Or can I help you with something?" He paused. "Either one works for me, don't be shy."

"I don't know," Stacy said with a sigh.

House looked at her quizzically. "Well, that makes two of us," he said. "Or do you know, and you just don't want to say?"

"I really don't know," Stacy said firmly, glaring at him. "I didn't come here to seduce you, if that's what you mean. I just. Wanted to come over, that's all."

"I just wanted to come over, that's all," House mimicked her gently. He paused, his blue eyes searching her face for some key to the trauma. "How often have you "just wanted to come over" in the past couple of months? The past year? Or is that why you were surprised to see that my room was a mess?"

Stacy ran one hand across her face in a nervous gesture. "I got a hotel room for the night," she said.

House raised an eyebrow. "The last time you said that to me you were trying to convince me to get into bed with you. Are you sure-!"

She cut him off mid sentence with a frustrated exhalation. "Yes, I'm quite sure, and now I'm started to wish I hadn't come. I just wanted to talk, that's all, I just wanted somewhere to go. I'm sorry if it's too much trouble to entertain me if I won't sleep with you."

There was silence for a moment, before House took her elbow and led her over the couch, where he let her seat herself. "You're just lucky I found a free moment from my Cassanova-esque social schedule," he chided, inducing a snort of laughter. "You fought with Mark again?"

"We didn't fight," she said staunchly. House waited. She tried again. "We didn't _fight_, we just didn't…do anything. We're not fighting, butwe're not speaking, we're not upset with each other, but we're not entertaining each other's company. We're just not." She laughed derisively. "That certainly made a lot of sense, didn't it?"

"Sure it did," House said with a shrug. "He's moody and you're frustrated. He's withdrawing, and you're doing that adorable reaching-out thing that you always try to do when someone just wants more than anything to be alone. Cute, misguided, and endearing."

He paced back and forth idly in front of her as he spoke, and Stacy watched his gait, watched his prideful compensation for his injury, watched his lack of shame, his arrogant, obnoxious, disturbingly sensual confidence. "Somehow," she said, "I don't think Mark finds it quite so endearing."

"Of course he does," House retorted. "He's just afraid of you."

Stacy blinked. "Afraid of me? I'm not that scary. I mean, I'm dangerous with a rolling pin, but I'm not _that_ intimidating."

House shook his head. "Sure you are," he said. "You're confident, collected, together. You can walk, you can reach physical levels that he doesn't feel he ever will. And he's in love with you. He hates it, but he is. You scare the shit out of him, because you have things he never will, and one of those things is you."

Stacy stared at the floor. "You're not making sense," she said.

House nodded. "Yes I am," he replied. "Who'd know better than I would?"

He left the area of the sofa and crossed to the piano, sitting down and caressing the keys with one long finger as he continued the conversation, not looking at Stacy. "Mark needs compensation, like anyone does. He thought you would be the key to that compensation, but you're not. He doesn't know what to do with that, how to cope with it. It's a perfectly human response."

He started to play, and Stacy closed her eyes and let herself sink back into the sofa. When she opened them, she saw that House was leaning into the keys, playing more lightly than she'd ever imagine such a forceful man would. He didn't look at her as he did so, nor did he give any sign of expression for her to work off of. He simply played gently until she felt the tension in her neck and back begin to relax of it's own volition.

"What is this?" She asked, after a few moments of enjoying that relaxation.

"Bach's Piano Concerto in A Minor," House replied, not looking at her. "Not my favorite, but easier to learn with a full working schedule."

"I like it," Stacy said, resting her chin in her hands. "I really do."


	9. Hot and Cold

House continued to play, and Stacy felt her eyes closing. She curled her legs up to her chest on the couch, and rested her head on the armrest, contented despite herself. His was a comforting presence, despite everything she knew about him. There was something about knowing that the person you were with could understand you, could connect with you intellectually and emotionally, despite his abrasive, offensive nature. She found just the fact that he was sitting in the room conducive to those few crucial relaxing moments.

"Were you playing solitaire just now?" She asked, glancing over at the coffee table.

House shuddered. "Doesn't that just scream "lonely, dejected nursing home?" He rolled his eyes. "The answer to your question is yes. It gets pretty boring after hours while I'm trying to find more work to avoid doing."

"You could avoid avoiding it," she countered.

"Stop talking," House suggested. "You're starting to stop making sense."

"What?" Stacy asked, but she was too far from consciousness at that point to honestly listen to his answer. As she drifted off to sleep, she could hear the flow of House's lazy chords, accompanied by a deep chuckle. "Hey," she murmured, "Don't laugh at me," she attempted drowsily. "Or I'll leave."

"No," House chuckled, "You won't."

The next morning, Stacy stretched out, her arms extending behind her head, and meeting with the leather armrest. Jolting fully awake, she sat up and blinked around blearily at House's living room. Settling back into the couch, Stacy slowly remembered the events of the previous night. She thought back to the fight with Mark, the rented hotel room, knocking on House's door at ten PM, and then the piano. He'd left his jacket lying on the piano bench when he'd gone to bed, and Stacy picked it up out of habit, folding it, and placing it back on the bench.

House stepped into the room, looking more rumpled than he had the previous night. "Okay," he said, "I know this doesn't look too good, but the reason I didn't give you the bedroom was that-!"

Stacy cut him off. "You didn't give me the bedroom so that I wouldn't think you'd tried to take advantage of me. Not that you'd have had an easy time of it, I don't sleep very soundly when I'm sober."

"Actually," said House, "I just didn't want you ripping through my sheets with those heels." He sat down next to her on the couch, and noticed the folded shirt with a little snort of laughter. "How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty well, I guess," Stacy replied. "Sorry about the crashing." She looked around again with a frown. "Maybe in return I could help you clean this place up a little bit." She gestured at the papers littering the floor. "Please tell me these aren't medical documents."

"Duly noted," said House, "I won't tell you." He shrugged at her suggestion. "Maybe you could stick around and prevent me from having to play solitaire all the time like the old guy that I am. Or you could get me a black coffee while you're out."

"Tell you what," Stacy said, "We'll compromise. We'll both go out and get that black coffee."

House shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Mark'll be looking for you. You either have to lay low, or go home." He waited for a response, but Stacy just avoided his gaze. "Probably cried himself to sleep last night," House continued, watching Stacy wince. "Go home, Stace. You can say you went to the hotel after all. With any real luck, he'll believe you."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Stacy countered defensively.

House nodded. "That you didn't," he replied, "But good luck convincing Mark of that if he finds out where you spent the night, invited or uninvited. And I personally like my head on my shoulders." He nudged her gently towards the door. "We'll get coffee another time. Go home."

Stacy glared at him. "Why do you care if I go back to Mark or not?" She asked. "You can't tell me with a straight face that you care whether or not he cries himself to sleep night after night. In fact, you'd probably enjoy it." She watched him, but he chose to ignore her, turning instead to pick up the folded jacket from the chair. He walked back into the hall closet, and Stacy called to him from where she stood by the door. "You can't, can you?"

"No," admitted House, walking back into the room, "No, I just care whether or not you cry yourself to sleep at night. Wouldn't let you do it last night, and I'd be pretty pissed off if you decided to do it tonight."

"You're impossible," Stacy muttered, as House opened the door for her. She stepped outside, and he shut the door behind her with a snap, heaving a contained sigh as he saw her getting into her car through the window.

Suddenly cold, he went back into the closet to retrieve his jacket, but found himself burning up as soon as he put it on. Irritated, he went back to his game of solitaire, but was unable to concentrate on the mundane card game for more than five minutes at a time. He swept the cards off of the table with one hand, and let them fall one by one to the floor, mingling with the papers and occasional plastic sandwich bag.

His head hurt, a level on the pain scale of at least six, he thought as he strode into the kitchen. Empty medicine bottles lay around, having been emptied several mornings before by Wilson in a hopeful attempt to expedite House's recovery.

He couldn't decide if the chills he was experiencing were withdrawal, cold, or a lack of Stacy, and he wasn't sure he liked any of the options. "Damnit," he muttered, slamming one of the pill bottles into the trashcan. "This is getting out of hand."


	10. Cruel Little Games

All eyes were on Stacy when she entered the office that morning, looking rumpled, as if she hadn't slept. Whispers followed her down the halls as she headed towards her office. She stepped into the elevator, watching the doors close in front of her with relief. They could talk, she thought, but they'd never have any idea what went on last night ,and for that matter, what had she to be ashamed of?

Stacy turned to discover that her elevator partner was Doctor Cameron, and let a little air slide out from between her teeth in an aggravated exhalation.

"Good morning," Cameron said pleasantly.

"Morning." Stacy turned away from her and watched the numbers sliding by on the flashing indicator. She could feel Cameron's eyes on the back of her neck as the elevator doors slid open to allow her to leave. "Have a good one," she said, by means of excusing herself. Cameron just watched her go. As she left, she glanced over her shoulder, and saw a look of pained realization in Cameron's eyes. Shaking her head, Stacy turned the corner and headed into her office. Silly girl, she thought, you don't know anything.

"Excuse me," a voice came from behind her desk, "but you're late." Stacy started, and glanced up to find Doctor House swiveling back and forth in her chair , long fingers clasped together below his chin, tapping against each other rhythmically as he regarded her. "I mean, let's look at the facts. I left at least fifteen minutes after you, and you showed up at least fifteen minutes after me, which means you must have stopped. But you don't look like you've stopped." He made a face. "You're either losing your touch, or you didn't make an effort this morning, which isn't like you."

"You're so sure," Stacy muttered, "that you know me like the back of your hand." She came around to the back of her chair, and leaned one arm on it expectantly. "And," she added, "You're sitting in my chair, doctor House."

"Am I?" House looked down at the chair he was perched in, as if surprised. "Well, would you look at that." He didn't get up to leave, and Stacy sighed in frustration, grasping the back of the chair and wheeling it away from her desk, so that House now set in the far corner of the room. She stood behind her desk, and bent her knees slightly to reach forward and tap the keys on her keyboard, checking her email. "Nothing worth waiting for," she said over her shoulder. "Just Viagra spam, and I'm sure you get plenty of that at home. You can leave, now."

House didn't leave, but stayed quietly folded into her desk chair, his fingers now drumming against the arms. Stacy dropped her hands from the keyboard abruptly. "I want my chair back," she said, raising an eyebrow. "What do you want?"

"Just a friendly visit," House shrugged. Stacy glared at him. "No," he said, "honestly. Just a friendly visit."

"When have you ever paid me," Stacy remarked, "a friendly visit? Even when you "visit" Wilson you're short on cash." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Tell me, Greg, what can I do for you that would encourage you to give me back my chair and leave me in some semblance of peace?"

"I'm not saying anything," House replied, mock-affronted. "Am I saying anything? I'm not. I don't 'see how I'm breaking your peace." He got up out of her chair and wheeled it towards her, holding it for her as she slumped into it.

"What," she asked, "you're not going to pull it out from under me?"

House rolled his eyes. "Please, if I was going to do anything I would have pulled out the rug. Much more of a satisfying crashing sound." He paused. "I came to ask you if you wanted to go to lunch with me, that's all."

Stacy blinked. "What, now?"

"Yes." House said, with an aggravating smile. "It's lunch time. Shall we?"

They were a few paces down the hall before Stacy again noticed every eye that they passed fixed on her and on House. "Oh," she said quietly, then stopped, turning to House. "Why do you want to go to lunch with me so badly all of a sudden?"

"Well," House reasoned, "seeing as we apparently had a hot wild night of extramarital sex, I figured we should probably get right to the talking and reconciling part."

Stacy stared at him. "Is that what you're telling everyone?" she asked, aghast.

House shrugged. "Who needs telling?" asked. "We both came in late; you looking like a train wreck and be looking like I'm in withdrawal."

"You are in withdrawal!" Stacy countered, heart racing. "And you're slandering me all over the hospital to make yourself feel better."

"That's not fair," House said pleasantly. "Not all over the hospital, just in this wing. Facts straight, Warner."

"So is this what you were aiming at?" Stacy exploded. "Keeping me there overnight so that you could then tell the hospital that I was cheating on my husband? 101 ways to break up an already faltering marriage?" She opened her mouth to speak again, but changed her mind, shoving past him towards the elevator. He followed, her quickening his pace to match hers. They stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed in front of them.

Stacy was seething, her breathing coming out in angry little hisses and spurts. House regarded her calmly. "Well, what did you expect them to think? You didn't come over to my house last night to bare your soul to me and cry about your lasting relationship troubles."

Stacy shook her head. "I didn't cry," she muttered.

House nodded. "That's what I said. So why did you show up at my door at an awful hour of the night? What were you looking for? Or is that really just part of your little game?"

"What game?" Stacy asked, raising her hands to the heavens in a beseeching gesture. "What are you talking about? I've done nothing to you!"

"You accus me," House said, his tone still level, "of slandering you to the office, when you know full well that last night you came over to show me just how much I'd never have. You can't accuse me of being the cruel one, Stacy. Not this time."

Stacy stared at him. There was silence in the elevator. It reached the bottom floor, and the doors slid open in front of them. House stepped out of the elevator, turning back to raise his eyebrows at Stacy. "Well? Are you going to eat anything today?"


	11. Mrs Warner

Stacy watched him for a few seconds, then turned on her heel and pressed the close-door button. House was cut from sight by the sliding of the elevator doors, and she listened to his footsteps tapping away towards the cafeteria. Punching the button of her office floor, she took a deep breath as the elevator ascended. In retrospect, she thought, she really should eat something at some point.

With that intention, she slipped out for a Starbucks run. It took her all of fifteen minutes to get her coffee and Danish and to get back to the hospital, and no one noticed her absence. She felt better, refreshed, as she went back towards her office, to put in the first hour of work she'd have attempted all day. She hadn't eaten dinner the night before, or breakfast that morning, and if she'd skipped lunch as she'd almost intended, she would have been even more useless than she was currently.

As she turned the corner towards her office, she was greeted with the sight of a shadow seated at her desk. Eyes wide, Stacy threw up her hands in frustration, and charged towards him through the open doorway. "For god's sake," she cried, "I think I made it decently clear that I wanted you out of my chair. Don't you have work to do, people to terrorize, slander to spread, something?"

"No," came the voice from behind her desk. "Good morning to you, too."

Mark wasn't sitting Stacy's chair. Her chair was across the room, in the same place that she'd put it before while trying to get House away from her desk. Mark had wheeled himself forward, sitting next to, but not genuinely at her workstation, having left all of her papers and personal effects untouched. It was almost disturbing, Stacy thought, the lack of interest he had in where she'd been or what she was up to. Either he'd thrown her over already, or he didn't feel like he needed any help with the puzzle.

"Mark," she acknowledged, biting her lip.

"I think," began Mark conversationally, "That 'good afternoon' would be more appropriate, actually." He glanced at his watch. "What time did you get into work today?"

Stacy shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said. "The usual time, I suppose. Why?"

"Why?" echoed Mark. "Funny you should ask." He wheeled his chair around to face her, as if he was trying to close her in, frighten her face-to-face. Mark was laying on the impending doom with a trowel, Stacy thought. He'd never been a subtle man.

For the sake of stealing his thunder, Stacy drew herself up, and looked him squarly in the face. "I came in late to work today," she said. "I was up late last night being upset about some debacle that had happened at a restaurant, and I slept in this morning. I came in to work by lunch time. Will that suffice, Mark?"

Mark shook his head. "You weren't up last night 'being upset' he mimicked. "You were up last night entertaining old boyfriends. Or are you going to deny that, too?" He waited, she didn't say anything. "The whole office was talking about when I came in looking for you this morning. The nice girl on House's crew was all too happy to tell me everything."

Stacy stared at him. Did he mean Cameron? She couldn't imagine Cameron being the type to spread gossip to the husband, to knowingly make shambles of a marriage. Jealousy, she thought bitterly, would turn you in all sorts of directions. She took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to speak.

"No," said House, from the doorway, "she isn't going to deny it, but I am." Mark swung his chair around to face the intruder. Stacy watched House limp casually into the room, leaning his tall form up against the wall behind her desk. "Stacy came knocking on my door last night," he started, "pretty distraught about some fight she'd had with her husband." He paused. "She sat down and talked my ears off about it. " He shrugged. "You know how hysterical women are."

Mark looked stony. "So, it's all true anyway, then," he started. House ignored him, and continued conversationally as if Mark hadn't spoken.

"She came over," he continued, and then looked at her watch and told me she had a hotel reservation, she had to go." He paused, looking at Stacy. "I asked her to stay of course, used all the usual tricks, the normal, 'it's late, you're tired, you shouldn't be driving, why don't you just stay here for the night?' But no." House glanced back at Mark, with a little rueful smile, "she's a stubborn woman, our girl."

"She's not 'our' anybody," barked Mark, his shoulders heaving with rage in the face of his smirking adversary. "I swear to god if you don't stop coming on to my wife, I'll come back here and have you fired."

"Good luck," House nodded encouragingly. "You do that." He nodded in Stacy's direction. "Your wife'll tell you, you won't be the first and you won't be the last, and Doctor Cuddy will very likely join her forces with yours once she hears about your scheme to keep me out of this hospital."

Mark ignored him. "We're going home," he said to Stacy, reaching forward to grab her hand. Stacy wriggled free of his grip. "We've got stuff to talk about," Mark continued, "and I don't want you hanging around here anymore. I think this guy has made his intentions extremely plain."

"Yes," said Stacy angrily, "I know his. I only wish I had any idea what yours were." She stood up from her chair and stalked across the room, feeling House's eyes on her from where he stood in the corner.

Mark made a motion to start towards her. "Stacy," he insisted. She shook her head.

"I work here, Mark," she said. "I'm not going home with you."

"Stacy," mark tried again, wheeling himself forward, and taking her wrist in one oustretched hand. Stacy tried to wrench herself free, but he held fast, both beseeching and commanding her with the same look. "Stacy, we're leaving. We're leaving now."

"I think she said," House spoke up quietly from behind them, "that she wasn't going." Mark and Stacy both turned around to face him, surprised etched in Stacy's features, White-hot anger in Mark's.

"Stay out of it," Mark hissed. House shook his head.

"She said she's not leaving, Mark," he repeated. "I think you'd better go."

Mark sat there for a few moments, staring at House, who stared back, eyebrows raised. "You want to hit the cripple, Mark?" he asked. "Go right ahead. I probably can't stop you." He paused, eyes narrowing. "But I can sure as hell hit a cripple too. You knew that already. Morals are overrated."

Mark turned away. "Fine," he said, his back to Stacy. "If you want to stay here, you stay here as long as you want. But you'd better think really hard about coming home. Really hard, Mrs. Warner." He wheeled himself slowly out of the office, the sounds of his chair wheels clicking aginst the floor disappearing around the corner. Stacy and House listened, immobile, until they'd gone completely.

House stood up quietly and left the office, heading back towards his own. Stacy stared at the elevator across the hall, licking her dry lips slowly, her deep exhalations coming rigidly, haltingly from her open mouth.


	12. Kicking the Addiction

Just before leaving, Stacy paid a long awaited call. Across the hall, in House's almost deserted office, Allison Cameron was putting papers into folders in her briefcase. She looked up when Stacy came in, and flinched immediately, before a word had been spoken. Stacy shook her head, disgusted.

"So," Stacy started, her tone level. "I guess you've decided in some back corner of your melodramatic mind that this has become war between us, haven't you." Cameron stared at her. Unchallenged, Stacy continued. "I don't want any part of your little games, and I don't care how you feel about any individual in this office. My business is my business and my business alone."

Cameron looked away, returning to her papers. "With all due respect, Mrs. Warner, I was asked a simple question and I gave a simple answer."

Stacy smoldered. "A simple answer?" She came around in front of Cameron, forcing Cameron's eyes in her direction. "You simply threw away my marriage, you _simple_ little girl!" Cameron looked hurt, and angry. Stacy unconsciously reveled in it. The worst feeling, she thought, was anger that wasn't requited.

"He doesn't deserve to be flung around like this," Cameron started. "He's a grown man, not some sort of prize, not something to play with when you're bored of your husband." She made as if to step around her chair and leave, but Stacy blocked her way.

"That's right," countered Stacy, remaining where she was. "He's a grown man. He's not your baby; he's not your charge. He doesn't need you to protect him."

"No?" asked Cameron, with a deep breath. "Well, no one else around here is going to do it. It's sure as hell apparent that you're more of a threat than a comfort, and he's not a rock, he's not as unfeeling as he comes across."

"I know that," barked Stacy, "I was with him once, remember?"

"That's what I thought." Cameron shook her head. "But I guess it's easy to forget, isn't it." And with that, she stepped around Stacy, threw her bag over her shoulder, and left the office, her heels clicking as she made her exit as quickly as she could. Stacy stood in place, staring at the ground, chewing on her lip.

Later that night, Stacy was knocking on House's door again, this time with a paper bag of Chinese food in hand. It took him a little longer to answer the door this time. He met her there with a tired, almost surprised look.

"Hi," she said. "I brought dinner."

House let her in, and she sat on the same couch on which she'd slept the night before, taking out Styrofoam containers and laying them out on the carpet. "Beef and chicken," she said, when House raised a questioning eyebrow. "I wasn't sure which you'd prefer."

"Look, Stacy," he started, but she cut him off.

"I called Mark after work," she said, with a shrug. "He didn't pick up the first two times, and I finally got him on the third. He asked me if I was coming home, and I said no. He asked me why, and I said I wasn't sure and that I had to think about it." She paused. "He didn't ask me where I was going this time."

"Stacy," House tried again, "this isn't a good idea." He glanced dubiously at the chicken that she'd speared on her fork. "And that doesn't look cooked."

"It's fine," she said. "I thought you liked to live dangerously."

House made a face, his fingers closing on his leg as he took a deep breath. Stacy frowned at him, sliding closer to him on the couch. House arched himself away from her, tending to his leg, eyes downcast.

"Does it hurt?" Stacy asked. House rolled his eyes.

"Of course it hurts," he muttered. "I'm not going to lose sleep over it." He paused. "I hope," he added, glaring at his leg. "Sleep is for the weak, anyway."

"Maybe," Stacy suggested gingerly, "You should take something for it." House glared at her, and she put up her hands in a protective, shielding gesture. "Only if it hurts that much, you know? There's no reason to suffer for principal alone."

"I'm not ''suffering for principal,'" House growled. "Principal is for idiots and crusaders. I'm kicking an addiction. I told you, I hate dependency."

"Dependency isn't going to kill you," Stacy countered, "at least not this one, and it's not as if you don't need it." She edged a little closer to him, and placed her hand on the spot where he was clutching his leg. House flinched away from her and she dropped her hand.

"There are a lot of things that won't kill you that still aren't good for you," House said, releasing the leg and propping it up on the arm of the chair. He looked at Stacy, shrugging. "Have to start somewhere."

Stacy stared at him for a long time. "Greg," she said, "I'm not going back to Mark tonight." She waited for a response, but when she got none, she tried again. "I'm not going back to Mark at all. Not with things the way they are."

House shook his head. "Yes, you are," he started, but Stacy shook her head at him, raising a finer to her lips for silence.

"No," she insisted, "I'm not. I don't want to."

House ran a nervous hand over the back of his neck, averting his gaze. "Stacy," he said, "You're going back to Mark, because you made a mistake once, and I know you well enough to know that you're not going to make it again. You're too smart for that, and you're going to get off of my couch, turn yourself around, and go home."

"You're right," Stacy said, "I'm not going to make the same mistake again." She reached out a hand for his, but he twitched his away. Frustrated, she reached down and picked a piece of beef out of the container at her feet, stuffing it into her mouth as she stared at the far wall. House sighed.

"I'm a lost cause," he started. "I'm ornery and fussy and self-obsessed. And I'm never going to change; I'm too old to learn new tricks. You said it yourself, Stace, people don't change, no matter how much you want them to."

"I don't care," Stacy insisted. "I don't want you to change."

"Yes, you do," House shook his head. "You're going to want a family man, just like Mark was, before the injury, you're going to want someone to comfort you when you come home at the end of the day, someone who likes to laugh at your jokes. I'm not that guy, I'm not the prince riding towards the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm even less a fallback man, Stacy." He watched her, watched her expression display her coping with this rejection. "You don't want me, and you'll remember it later when things aren't so bad at home." He looked away. "Go home, now."

"You're wrong," Stacy began, but House wasn't listening. He had his back to her, his fingers drumming along his leg where she knew the pain kept shooting through it. Silently, she stood up and left, the door clicking closed behind her as she went. As she left, she could hear the sounds of a scale being pounded out on the piano.


	13. Means to an End

Stacy didn't go home, but when she returned to the hospital, House no longer paid her office calls. A week went by without any real contact between the two of them, until Stacy felt like she'd made a complete fool of herself. She walked down to lunch one day with Wilson in hopes of catching House off guard, but he wasn't there, apparently having chosen that day to skip lunch. Maybe, she thought sourly, he'd seen her approaching and escaped to go eat with Cameron and the rest of his precious "ducklings."

Dejected, she stalked back up to her office and plopped down at her desk. Her email yielded little of interest, other than the occasionally amusing name under the "probable spam" category. As she clicked through the pages, she heard the door slide open behind her, followed by the tapping of both a pair of feet and a cane against the ground. The sound was uneven, almost broken, and Stacy swung around in her chair to find House standing lopsidedly in her office doorway, his limp more pronounced than usual.

"Anything good?" He asked, nodding towards the computer. Stacy shook her head.

"Spam and chain letters," she replied, frowning at his slumped posture. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," House muttered, "Peacy keen, how are you?"

Stacy shrugged. "Peachy keen," she echoed. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," House started, "I realized that I never paid you back for dinner the other night." He stopped, and Stacy waited expectantly for him to justify the statement. When he didn't, she raised an eyebrow.

"Greg, when have you ever paid me back for dinner, even when you were expecting it?" She asked. "Keep the money, my treat." She paused. "Do you want to sit down" she asked, vacating her chair abruptly and gesturing for him to take a seat.

"Yes," he said, sliding unceremoniously into her chair. He stretched out his leg, and made a face, his body spasming as he did so. "Haven't made it home yet, I presume."

"No," Stacy agreed. "I'm still staying at the hotel." She added, firmly, "I'm staying at the hotel."

"Not for good, I hope," House commented, trying to flex his leg. "Costs money for every night you're there, not that the hospital can't keep shelling out, not with all the legal trouble I've been getting myself into lately. And let me tell you, I am perfectly willing to get into more if it helps your cause, but that's just between us, don't tell Cuddy."

He waited for a moment in silence, watching Stacy's fingers clicking away at her keyboard, before he continued. "I hear you've been terrorizing my staff."

Stacy looked up at him. "What?"

House shrugged. "Cameron says that you and she had a bit of a run in a week or so ago. I can't condone you women going at it over me, not at the workplace. Fight over me on your own time, why don't you, but don't clutter up the office with that kind of hormonal conflict."

Stacy stared calmly in front of her, choosing not to respond. Unperturbed, House watched her for a few more moments before continuing. "Cuddy, Wilson and I are going out for a few drinks tonight, if you want to come with us."

Stacy stopped typing. "Are you sure? I thought you were kicking the habit."

"You can bring Mark, if you really want to," House added, pointedly. "But I don't like him, he's stuffy."

Stacy nodded, trying to ignore the disappointment that came unbidden, and continued rifling through her email, before closing her program and swiveling around to face him. "Sure, I'll be there, assuming Wilson and Cuddy don't mind."

House snorted. "Please. They'll be happy for someone else to talk to. That you didn't have to be told." He pushed himself slowly from the seat, averting his face so that Stacy caught only the shudder that shot through his body as his legs touched the ground. "We'll see you at eight, then," he added, and departed, leaving Stacy staring contemplatively at his back.

She wondered to herself if that was his purpose all along, for her to be a mitigating force to those friends and forced companions that he had to entertain against his will along the way. Men like him were notorious for treating women like that, stringing them along, using them as crutches to get to an end. A means to an end, she thought.

As promised, at the end of the day she found herself walking through a crowded downtown bar, looking for the sign of a cane sticking out into an aisle. She was alerted of House's prescence by a waitress stumbling over something protruding from a corner.

"I'm sorry," she heard Wilson say, and the can retracted itself back into the booth. "We'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

Stacy made her way over to the table where she found Wilson sitting next to House, across from Lisa Cuddy, who looked like she was a cross between sorry that she'd come, and amused that she'd been invited to a fest of the two stooges. When she saw Stacy, should stood up, and called out to her with a warmth of relief in her voice. "Stacy! Over here, we're glad you could make it"

Stacy slid into the seat next to Cuddy, and folded her arms beneath her chin. Wilson smiled at her, waved politely. House nodded in her direction. "Stacy," he said, "decided to ditch late night showtime movies alone to join us tonight."

She ignored him. Wilson inclined his head, raising an eyebrow. "How have you been holding up, lately?"

Stacy suddenly felt as she had weeks ago, as if she was suddenly surrounded by a group of extremely well meaning simpletons, who failed to care as much about her actual feelings on the matter as they did about the juicy tidbits of gossip they'd get from the encounter. Glancing over at House, she saw him roll his eyes at her, and she thought for a moment that she might have seem him wink lopsidedly, before gesturing at Cuddy.

"Cuddy tells us," House began, "that you're going to go shack up with her for a bit. Two hot babes in one apartment, I salivate at the very thought."

"Lisa's offered," Stacy said, attempting to be demure, "But I don't think I want to impose."

"And yet you'd impose on me," House noted. "Must be my darkly intense good lucks. Women love cripples. We're not threatening, but there's something very intriguing about being needed." He said this disdainfully, and Cuddy shot him an irritated look. Stacy, as usual, ignored him. In the back of her mind, she wondered why he'd choose to tease her now, when a week ago he'd put her from his house for being attracted to those same darkly intense good looks.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Wilson asked helpfully.

"Sure," Stacy nodded. "Sounds good to me."

**Author's Note:** Thank you to EVERYONE for all of your comments, they've been very constructive, and I will try to take all of them into consideration when writing this story.

I have only one rebuttal to make. ;)

I understand that it is important to follow through with House's kicking the addiction, and so I've made sure to try and make note of the fact, chapter to chapter, that he is suffering. HOWEVER. This is not a story about angsthurtcomfort House and his inability to cope. That is a plot device, something that must be remembered, but is really just a means to a metaphor. There are several fics which expound greatly on House and his addictions and pains, which I will gladly recommend to you if that is what you are looking for, but I personally do not wish to write every waking moment of House's life as pain, misery, and suffering. The man knows how to deal with pain, not to say he does not have any. He will probably not spend all of his time bemoaning his fate, and neither, therefore, will I.

I am also firmly aware of the effects of pain drugs. Having recently been involved in an irreversible accident myself, and no, I'm not making this up for sympathy's sake, I know on a smaller scale what it feels like and how it is dealt with. Please, bear with me.

Yours, Rebecca 


	14. I Am Undone

About the time that Wilson started looking more than tipsy, Cuddy gave Stacy a disgusted look, and a frustrated sigh. "I think it's time we got this nightmare home," she cautioned, "before he starts singing."

Stacy raised an amused eyebrow. "Does that happen often?" She asked. "I think I'd like to stay and watch."

"Trust me," Cuddy replied, shaking her head vigorously, "You wouldn't. You've heard him humming around with his office radio, that's bad enough. This is worse, and no matter how secure you are, it's ten times more embarrassing in public."

Stacy bid them both goodnights as she watched Cuddy escorting a slightly precarious Wilson towards her car, which was parked outside in the "Princeton Plainsboro Staff Only" courtesy parking. She heard the tires squeal as they drove away, and turned to her remaining seatmate, shrugging her shoulders. "I don't think I want you taking the motorcycle home right now."

They walked out together to the parking lot, and set on a bench in front of the bar, House wrapping his arms around his own shoulders as he shuddered involuntarily. "It's cold," he started, but Stacy shook her head. Frustrated, he muttered something incomprehensible about her having lived in New York, and crossed his long legs over one another, blinking out towards the quieting street. "I have to back to the hospital to pick up some files," he said. "You should come with me. It's probably not a good idea for me to leave you out here alone, and if something happened to you, everyone would try their best to make me feel responsible."

Stacy led him back across deserted sidewalks, listening to the uneven tapping of his cane alongside her as they went. "The gentlemanly thing to do," he started, "would be to offer you my oat. Lucky for me I'm not a gentleman."

"Heaven forbid," agreed Stacy, rolling her eyes. "That would be off-putting."

"Takes one who knows you to understand you," House acknowledged, and Stacy stopped, turning to watch him as he shuddered again in the streetlights. "I mean," he continued, "if I felt the need to give you my jacket, I'd be even more freezing than I am now, and it's just embarrassing to die of frostbite on the steps of your own hospital. Is there a doctor in the house?"

"What files?" Stacy asked, as they ascended the steps to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. "A new case that they can't crack, left to the brilliant but apparently masochistic Doctor House?"

"No," admitted House, as they crossed the hall to the elevator, "Just the credit card bills and the list of thank-you notes that I have to make sure not to write."

They rode up together in the elevator, Stacy leaning against the wall as the floor numbers blinked by above her. Fatigue hit her in a wave, and she blinked blearily at the elevator doors as they slid open to admit herself and House. House immediately started down the hallway towards his office. "You should get a jacket," she admonished him. "Or a sweatshirt to go under your coat. You must have something lying around in there."

Receiving no response, she followed him into the office. The lights were all off when she entered, and she could see his shadow slouching over his desk, rifling through the papers on his desk, some of them swishing off the table and drifting down to the floor as he flung them aside.

"Greg?" Stacy called to him, crossing the room to meet him. "Why don't you turn the lights on in here, might make things a little easier." She stepped over to the light switch, and flicked the tab downward with one finger, blinking as the office was abruptly lit from above by the single rectangular overhead lamp.

"Thanks," House muttered. Looking up at him in the newly brightened room, Stacy saw the lines etched into his face, the tautness of his body as he wrenched himself slowly forward and away from the desk. "Greg," she suggested quietly, "Why don't you sit down for a few minutes."

"It's cold in here, and I want to go home," he replied. Stacy reached out one arm, clasping his wrist in her hand.

"Just a moment," she insisted. "I'm not going to keep you very long." She didn't say what she wanted to, that he looked like he could use a rest, that she was worried about him. There was no doubt that House would go up in arms immediately about his precious rejection of "dependency," about how her sympathy was pity, and pity was the last thing he'd ever want or need. Instead, she led him over to the couch, and pushed him into it, watching him slump, disgruntled, against the armrest.

"So, what have you been up to?" House asked, almost interested, his eyes on her nervous hands. "Living the single, high life, checking in and out of hotels, making arrangements with hot, single friends, having mad, wild parties at the hospital's expense."

"You got it all right up until that last part," she said, rolling her eyes. "That's all it's been, high times and sexy games, just me, myself, and the mirror. And occasionally Cuddy, who's had the courtesy to at least check in on me now and again. I can't decide if she's being sympathetic, or just genuinely doesn't know what to make of me anymore."

"That makes two of us," House agreed, grunting as he shifted his leg against the side of the couch. "Join the club, we've got t-shirts."

He rubbed one temple with one long finger, muttering soundlessly to himself as he blinked frustratedly across the room, at nothing. Stacy slid herself into the seat beside him, her hand groping for his on the seat cushion beside her. She felt his hand tense in hers as she wrapped her fingers around his frozen ones, and then watched as he slowly, carefully relaxed his hand into hers.

She held the contact there for a moment, trying to maintain her composure as the thrill of that simple, yet intimate contact shot through her. She could feel House shivering beside her, and entertained the temporary notion that it was because of her proximity, and not at all because of the cold. She herself felt warm, drowsy from sleep and a couple of drinks, and yet on edge with the tenseness of the very comfort that she was afraid to experience in the prescence of a man who had himself admitted he could not, would not change for her.

There are some things, she thought, that are never good for us, that we do in an almost passive aggressive way, just to make the point. Then there are other things, dangerous more to the soul than to the body itself, which we do because we love, and when we love, we're reckless, not from lack of understanding, but from lack of care that everything will ultimately come falling down around us. There was nothing precise about it, nothing calculated or controlled about the way her fingers twined with his, the way his breath on the back of her neck made her own breathing just that much more forced as she struggled to remember that inhaling and exhaling was the key to making it through the next few minutes.

"Woe is me," House murmured, "for I am undone."

Stacy looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I didn't ever think of you as a spiritual man," she commented, trying not to meet his eyes with her own, now wide and searching in the electric lighting.

House snorted, almost derisively. "That's the thing," he agreed, "I'm not."

It happened in a moment, when she found him twining his one free arm around her waist, his muscular shoulder scraping hers in his sudden desire to get closer to her. He extracted his other arm from where it rested beneath him on the sofa, and brought it around, his fingers brushing against her face with a gentleness that one would not have expected of a man of his usual disposition. He stroked her cheek with one long finger before leaning in, gently tipping her face into his as his lips met hers, caressing them slowly at first, then with a taut, yet tender urgency. Stacy closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, her own hands finding his shoulders as she pulled herself against him. Her knee brushed against his injured leg as she swung one leg up around his waist, and he let out a grunt of pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, gently extracting her leg from his. "I'll be careful."

House shook his head. "It's fine," he said, "I'll forgive you this time."


	15. Running with Scissors

Still unsure of how much Stacy wanted House on a motorcycle with a few drinks in him, she insisted on the two of them taking the bus home. It was just late enough that the driver was ready to turn in for the night, making Princeton Plainsboro Hospital the last stop on his route.

It was peaceful being the only two people on the ride home, Stacy reflected as they rode back towards House's place, her head propped against his shoulder, bouncing against his collarbone as the bus went over a speed bump. Unconsciously, Stacy nestled herself in closer against the inside of House's coat, and she felt his fingers drifting up, hesitantly, to brush through her hair. It was frigid, and she could feel him still shaking against her as the few remaining cars and street signs passed beside them.

Stacy couldn't remember the last time she'd spent this kind of quality time with someone, just sitting alone, no rush to undress, no hurry to reveal her mystery to an eager audience with a low budget of time. With Mark, lately, it had always been a sort of mechanical, necessary endeavor, rushed and fruitless as she struggled to salvage their marriage with her remaining bartering chip of physicality.

Here, she felt not so much safe as comforted, placated by House's seeming desire just to sit with her and watch the dark get darker, as the hours rolled closer to midnight. Every now and then, she'd turn to look up at him, checking for a wrinkle of concern, or frustration on his hard, careworn face. He sat as peacefully as she did, his breaths rising with hers, his fingers still twined in her hair, stroking almost absently.

The bus came to a stop a few blocks away from where House lived, and Stacy led him down the steps, into the night air. House stopped, and unzipped his coat, taking it off of one shoulder and tucking Stacy in-between him, and his sheathed arm, wrapping the free arm of the coat around her. "I thought you weren't a gentleman," she noted, pressing closer to him beneath the jacket.

"I'm not," shrugged House. The two of them started off down the street, Stacy watching her breaths catch in the air with little frozen puffs, trying to align her steps with House's less rhythmic gait.

"You never actually had anything to eat," House noted, attempting what he seemed to believe was appropriate concern. "Are you hungry?"

"No." Stacy shook her head, and kept walking.

At House's front door, he fumbled in the pockets of his coat with one arm for the key. Stacy reached across him, dipping her hand into his pocket and closing her fingers around the cold metal. Stepping out, dropping the shoulder of House's cold that she'd been holding up around herself, Stacy fitted the key into the lock, and opened the door.

House stepped inside, and she followed, feeling the warmth of the room seeping into her as House closed the door behind them with a thud. No longer having any need for his coat, he threw it off, and it landed on the couch before skidding off to fall to the floor, where he left it.

"It's warm in here," Stacy said, unnecessarily.

"Some like it hot," chuckled House.

Stacy stepped towards him, and reached out, curling her fingers into the pockets of his sweatshirt, and pulling him to her. She kissed him, feeling his cold cheeks warming slowly against hers, his frigid lips pliable after a moment as she pressed hers insistently against them.

They stood there for a moment, House's arms pinning Stacy to him, his hands running up and down her back. She reached up and pulled on the hood of his sweatshirt, bringing it over his head and letting it fall to floor in front of him. House stepped over it, kicking it into a pile behind him, and kissed her again.

"Your eyes are open," Stacy murmured into the collar of his shirt. "It's disconcerting."

"Don't be picky," House reminded, his lips moving down to massage her neck. "If you close yours, you won't notice."

Stacy pulled House down on to his couch, only remembering at the last minute to brace him as his leg hit the front of it. Apparently unperturbed, House stood, knees bent, against the front of the couch, one hand clenched around the armrest awkwardly as he kissed her. Stacy giggled despite herself, and House stopped, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing," Stacy replied, reaching up for him again, but House held himself out of reach.

"You giggled," he said. "You don't giggle, you more chuckle, or snigger."

"Snigger's derogatory," Stacy said. "I don't snigger."

"You do," insisted House. "Honestly that was more of a snigger than a real giggle."

Stacy laughed at him again, and this time managed to pull him to her with an outstretched arm, House's resistance ebbing as he folded himself down on the couch beside her. "Thank god," she whispered, "that wasn't really very comfortable."

"You're telling me," House agreed. He eased Stacy gently back against the armrest, using that same armrest to pull himself up towards her receptive mouth. His fingers found her shoulder blades, then the zipper of her jacket, undoing it and sliding the zipper down to release her from it. The jacket fell behind her, and Stacy leaned back, her thigh finding the cold metal of the zipper.

"Ouch," she muttered. She flung the jacket away from her, to join the sweatshirt on the floor. House was playing with the buttons on her blouse, sliding them undone one by one, working his way down towards her waist. She reached down and undid the final two buttons. Stacy was thankful for the warmth of the room as House pushed the sleeves of her shirt back over her shoulders, removing the thing entirely.

A little cold, now, Stacy was quick to return the favor, pulling House's shirt up over his head in order to press herself closer against her, warming herself with the heat of bodily contact. His breathing suddenly sped up, and Stacy tried to avoid a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge of a job well done.

With a little exhalation, House pulled himself on top of Stacy, kissing her shoulders as his fingers fumbled for the zipper of her jeans. Stacy breathed into his neck, her eyelashes brushing almost unnoticeably against his bare chest as she let herself relax against him.

As he slipped her jeans down over her knees, House shook his head, with a darkly resigned grunt. "It's like running with scissors," he muttered. "This will only end in tears."

**Author's Note: **You can breathe now, I promise the rating stays teen. ;)


	16. A Sweetheart for the Ages

Stacy woke up on House's couch for the second time the next morning, and immediately almost slipped off of the couch. She found herself precariously perched in the doctor's arms, one arm locked across her waist, holding her against his chest, still heaving with sleepy breath.

"Greg?" Stacy scooted up on to the couch, trying to squeeze herself farther back to avoid unceremoniously tumbling to the floor. "Still asleep?"

"Stupid question," House muttered, not opening his eyes. "You move like a herd of wildebeests."

Stacy slipped out form under his arms, her bare feet hitting the carpeted floor with a muffled thump. She turned to look at House, scanning his drowsy face for any lingering trace of how voracious and eager he'd been the night before. He looked complacent, nonplussed, very much the House she'd known only hours before.

"It's elephants," she said, reaching down to locate her blouse in the pile of discarded clothing. "I'm starving. Take me out to breakfast."

"Demanding woman," House replied, but she could hear, to her relief, the trace of a smile in his voice.

House rose, and pulled on his pants, stretching and blinking in an attempt to reorient himself. Stacy stood and watched him as he dressed, noting the wince as he knelt on his inured leg to reach his sweatshirt. Stacy went to her knees beside him, picked up the sweatshirt, offered it to him. Pausing, House leaned on her proffered shoulder as he pulled it over his head.

"There's a shower down the hall," he suggested belatedly, "if you want one."

Stacy shook her head. "I'll shower after breakfast," she insisted. "I'm hungry." She grabbed his hand and marched him to the doorway. "Wear a coat,"" she suggested. "It seemed to work out very well for us last time."

"Mooch," House accused, grabbing his coat off of the chair where it had ended up the night before. The two of them pulled on shoes, and headed out into the nine o'clock Saturday street life.

They walked down the sidewalks together, heading for Starbucks, not in the mood for a genuine sit down. Stacy perched on the edge of a table, her legs swinging back and forth, almost school-girlish, as House ordered up a venti black coffee, and a mocha frappaccino. She went to join him while the baristas worked on their drinks.

"So," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder," what are we going to do today?"

"We?" House looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and Stacy's heart dropped. So he was satisfied after all with their brief and urgent encounter the night before. In the back of her mind, Stacy remembered riding with him on the bus, trying to block out of her head the irrational desire to spend what was so commonly categorized as "women's quality time," with the man whom she'd woken up with this morning.

House shrugged at her. "You sure you're going to stick around?" He asked, his voice absent and detached. "You should probably be getting over to Cuddy's. She'd really get some use out of you staying, she drinks alone, too much, and she's allergic to her own pets."

Stacy squeezed House's shoulder. "I think I'll stay a little while," she said. "Why don't we go see a movie?"

House snorted. "What are we," he asked, "in high school? Sleep with a girl, then take her to the movies to make sure she goes home and tells her friends what a lovely gentleman you were." He laughed, but looking down at Stacy's disappointed face, House shifted, almost looked guilty. "Yeah," he said, "What do you want to see?"

Stacy looked at the floor, her face reddening. There was something awkward in this, something almost forced in the way that she desperately wanted him to want to be with her. Something very, even as he'd noted, ninth grade about it. She hated the way he'd brought that up, the way he felt he had to bring every inadequacy and chink in their relationship into focus. As if she couldn't tell, as if she wasn't feeling it in her rapidly heating face.

"I don't know," she said, attempting nonchalance, flicking a tendril of hair out where it was caught in the corner of her mouth. "It was just a suggestion."

House shrugged, and leaned back, bracing himself against a nearby table. "Whatever you like," he murmured, sounding almost blankly complacent, dispassionately agreeable. Stacy watched his total lack of interest, they way his eyes didn't light up at the prospect of taking the woman he'd spent the night with to the movies, the way he impatiently tapped his cane against the legs of the table as he waited for his drink.

"Mocha Frappuccino," called the barista from behind the counter. Stacy steppd forward, took the drink, and turned back to House.

"I think I'm going to go to Cuddy's, actually," she said, biting her lip. "I made a promise. It's only fair."

"Makes sense," House nodded, and for the first time, Stacy thought she heard something regretful in his voice. She glanced up at him, but found him playing with some speck or fuzz that he'd found on his jacket.

"Well, it's been nice," she tried again. "It's been a while." It seemed like a ridiculously stupid thing to say. House gave her a long, scrutinizing look.

"Sure has," he said.

Coughing, Stacy turned away, heading for the door. "Bye, Greg." She thought briefly about turning back, stepping back to kiss him as she left, to leave herself hanging on his lips like in the best love stories. But when she glanced over her shoulder, House was already stepping up to the counter to get his coffee, completely ignoring her exit.

"See you at work," she muttered.

"See you on Monday," House replied. With a sigh, Stacy gathered herself and slipped out. As she left, the door got stuck against a twig that had fallen in front of it, and hung ajar, leaving House the ability to watch her turn the corner of the Starbucks as she disappeared from sight.

But he didn't. Instead, he ordered a piece of pound cake, and took himself into the corner against the wall, farthest from the draft coming in through the door. His watch said it was too far past noon to go back to bed.

**And that concludes our story. **

**I've been considering a continuation of House and Stacy's relationship, but seeing as she's quite gone from the show, I'm not sure if there's any point in writing it. If you would like to see more of this kind of thing, even a sequel, please leave a comment saying so. Thanks for reading!**


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